


Ashes, Ashes: We All Fall Down

by velvetnoire



Series: Senbazuru (One Thousandth of a Foolish Wish) [1]
Category: Witch's Heart (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, headcanons, no ship only angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 13:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetnoire/pseuds/velvetnoire
Summary: Ashe sees the echo of someone he once knew in Claire. Reminiscence is bittersweet.





	Ashes, Ashes: We All Fall Down

 

A smile is brought to his face at the familiar _crack!_ of shattered eggshell and the shining spill of its contents. Its yolk is as vivid as the saffron spill of sunlit memories, rushing back. Like the sea reclaiming its brethren, the saltwater would soak his senses so that he would drown in his sorrow.

But no, he cannot sink - not when he is so close to achieving his dream; the sharp edges of his smile are swiftly smoothed to a blunted blade. He must keep the beaming mask, the joking jester: ever the curious fool.

He cannot chance the others catching even a glimpse; he must keep his machinations that revolve like clockwork kept in his mind. How his thoughts, turning _ad infinitum_ , would click and clack until the hourglass emptied, grain by painstaking grain.

He tucks back a stray strand, an unruly dissenter against hair plaited teal. It's difficult to tell that he's placed a significant effort into braiding his unruly locks, to little avail - perfection so infuriatingly beyond reach.

Ah, back to the task at hand. One egg, then two, three, four...Really, were they baking enough to feed an army?

He looks up. Across the kitchen, a freshly-opened bag of flour is sagging dangerously close to the edge of the counter. It's about to pour the entirety of its contents on the (relatively) pristine floor.

His eyes narrow to serpentine slits, piercing, analyzing the situation with a critical eye (no matter how trivial it seemed.) With swift strides, rinsing his hands and drying them on a nearby towel, he pulls the bag of flour back from the edge and seals it shut.

His expression flickers back to an expression like sugary syrup. It was as sickeningly sweet as honey, oozing with manic excitement - two parts false and one part wholly sincere.

“Whew! That sure was a close one, Miss Claire! I may have just averted a stern talking-to from Sirius!”

“Ah!! Sorry, Ashe, I was too focused on preheating the oven!”

He reassures her kindly, with enthusiasm that couldn't be entirely natural- but of course Miss Claire wouldn't notice. With all her naivety, not even an ounce of distrust flickered in her eyes. Ignorance would be far more blissful, for her…

Ashe surveys the kitchen, snapped from his musings as he turns back to his work, whisking yolks and whites alike. The kitchen is filled with a warmth like coming home.

It greets him with an open-armed embrace - a striking contrast to the stacks of firewood that had depleted steadily as the harsh winter had drawn on. But they could hardly afford to purchase more when it was more luxury than necessity. Acquiring it on their own in the blizzard outside would be more of a death sentence than anything - so that option was out as well. As a child, he had always hated the biting winter - cruel and merciless winds whistling through the night, rousing him from restless dreams.

Yes, this warmth was certainly different...but not unwelcome.

Accompanying this warmth, the room hums with an odd current of energy he cannot quite name - something like magic, tingling on his skin. Magic, hm? 

Had the witch Dorothy and her predecessors cooked at this very stove? Had she sliced carrots over this sink, as easily as cleaving flesh? ...Best not to dwell on it: the thought alone made him shudder. 

So immersed is he in his work (my, my, the amount of dough was growing to a concerning amount), he nearly splits an egg yolk destined to greet tile at the sound that echoes through the kitchen - so hauntingly familiar.

Claire’s - _laughing._ It shouldn’t sweep through his mind, toppling like a house of cards and crumpling his resolve like paper, but it does. It’s a sudden sound that rings as clear as sleigh bells through freshly-fallen snow, pure yet sending ice through his veins.

It’s too bright, too cold, too soon, too _sudden_. It’s achingly _happy_ , like joy distilled into the sunlight he hasn't seen for so long.

It makes the feeling rear its head, an old ache flaring within his chest - “big brother instincts,” his little sister had called them. A feeling of wanting to protect something precious. Yes, the sentiment of it is rekindled from ashes and he is burning. Just the sound of it is enough to send him spiraling as tongues of flame consume him, guilt eating him up inside. The remorse - he pushes it aside in the hope of redemption and a selfish wish. He is a liar caught afire, choking on his own smoke and mirrors.

Ah, ah, this gaping wound is not something he'll ever forget. The crimson haunts his dreams, sanguine spilling and spilling and spilling until he is drowning all alone: stranded in a sea of blood. It’s a Dead Sea, as he now lives more for the dead than the living. A part of him had died that day, leaving him bereft. It almost makes him want to laugh until he has no voice, because isn't it funny? Isn't it so pitiful? Isn't he so utterly _pathetic_?

He wants to scream until he is beyond hoarse, gasping for ragged breaths and emptied of hollow grief. Rising through his throat, it would be a wail of mourning. It would be the sound of his heart, shattering into fragments shimmering like tears.

But it would be alright, surely. Because soon...there wouldn't be any need to mourn.

*

His little sister had laughed like that, once: bright and clear and beautiful. He’d read her favorite fairytale, his vision acute even in the dim lamplight - the _Witch's Heart_ \- and together they snickered at even the notion. Before tucking her to sweet dreams and bidding her to bed, he couldn't help but ask.

"What would you wish for, Princess?" _I would grant it for you. I would take all the stars from the sky even if they sizzled my skin. Sister, do you know?_

"Sweets! Cookies and cakes and cotton candy, enough for all of us to eat!" _Of course. If that is what you wish. For you, I would do anything..._

They could never afford it; sugar-laced pastries were the least of their concerns. Even when he sold his mother's Patricia Mirrors albums in secret to sneak treats for his family (he really did spoil his little sister), even when his parents’ eyebrows were raised in half suspicion, half delight - he'd do it all the same.

"Where did you get the money for this, son?"

He'd laugh nervously in response - saying some elaborate excuse or the other, the innocent half-truths falling softly on unknowing ears. He’d wash away the bloodstains or toss the soiled clothes in the fire. He'd do anything for his family. They didn't need to know. A few pastries may not have seemed like much, but if it made them happy...A little lie couldn't hurt.

(He had always been an excellent liar.)

*

"Commander Claire to Lieutenant Ashe! Are you there?"

A voice calls him back to warm reality. Its urgency gives feeling to the numbness that had spread through his body, locking him into a place of quiet reminiscence.

Claire is staring intently at him, waving a wooden spoon caked with dough about like a magic wand. It was like she expected it to break him out of his sudden spell in a shower of sugar and stardust, sparkling in the air.

"Yes, Commander! I'm so sorryyyy for spacing out!"

All is forgiven.

(So why does the knife tremble in his hands? _Control yourself, Bradley. Don’t let your mask fall an inch. Don’t waver in your resolve - not now, not ever.)_

He doesn't deserve it: this relentless kindness that leaves him drowning in guilt, chasing away his shadows even for a moment. He can't stand it - this still-beating heart that mocks him.

_(He thinks of the flowers he'll leave at yet another grave, bittersweet and soaked in rain. Ah, it was like the sky was mourning. The day they met, he had wanted to wipe the sky’s tears away - to part the clouds for the shining sun. How painful it was, to meet under such a sorrowful sky. How sad.)_

It kills him, this kindness.

 _(Why don't you drive the knife deeper, Claire? Why don't you fight back? Smile for me, just one last time._ )

In the end, it's that very same kindness that kills her, too.


End file.
